


The Conundrum between Fire and Ice

by Gloriousred



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8809375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloriousred/pseuds/Gloriousred
Summary: You see, Nero, an existential question that reaches ordinary minds many times a day is: “What will cause the end of the world as we know it? The sun exploding and scorching Earth, or another ice age courtesy of global warming?” 
In synthesis, what is more destructive; fire or ice? 
You could also consider the dilemma from a different perspective. What is more destructive, hate or desire?





	1. A Tempestuous Night to Reminisce

**Author's Note:**

> Robert Frost's poem gave me an idea months ago that bloomed into this tale that, like Sherlock itself, is composed of sorrow and joy. Hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed getting it out of my head and into seemlessly flowing prose. Really, I'm proud of the voice in this one.

He closed his umbrella with mechanical resolve. Habit had made the motions almost automatic for Mycroft Holmes, so without much thought, his constant companion was shut and hung with his coat by the door. He walked inside his lavish house, without turning a single light on. The soft rain from earlier had increased into a tempest, and as such, its thunder cracked and its lightning flashed. The Iceman was many things, but sentimental wasn’t one of them. He had gone to visit his brother’s grave for a reason completely unrelated to the weather. That particular tempest that made the heavens the same hue as his cold, calculative eyes. London’s grave and characteristically somber skies had only been this morose thrice before in Mycroft’s lifetime; The day Redbeard was sent to a villa in the south of France, the day his brother’s body was delivered from Eastern Europe after his unfortunate death a couple months in, and today – hardly believable to be only the day after that – when he had had to reopen the silent tomb (a tomb that he reminded himself was never intended to actually be his brother’s final destination, much less under such circumstances) to fulfil her last wish. He was a man of his word, Mycroft Holmes, his honor being one of his most prized possessions, and getting him to make a promise was a miracle. But, he conceded to his own mind it was the least he could do.

As he sat by his fireplace, just as he had done the first time he had made his late brother a visit, the Iceman accepted a fact. He had always enjoyed facts. During the Great Split, when he had moved to a boarding school in Cambridge leaving his ten year old brother behind asleep in his bed, he had accumulated a whole library of them. He had read famous and mostly unknown books, textbooks and anthologies for all subjects. Although, never Shakespeare. The great bard’s plays were far too romanced for Mycroft’s liking. Today of all days, he could see that perhaps not all of the stories were quite so… fictional as he had originally dismissed them. Surely, Sherlock was laughing at him now, content with having outsmarted him so thoroughly.

Sherlock.

Never would he be allowed to forget that he had been, once again, the killer. Like a sniper pointing at his target from a distance, it had been him who had taken Sherlock’s favorite dog from him with only his stare. From that fateful day on, Sherlock had always believed it had been him who had brought along his companion’s tragic end beneath a truck, yet Mycroft knew it had been him. His eyes were the color of this ominous and malicious sky, therefore anything that occurred beneath his gaze on a day like today was his doing. He, and not his baby brother, had killed the strong, loving red canine. Then he had played judge in a matter he had misinterpreted and underestimated the importance of. He had decided that the best way to eliminate a certain pest … was to spray bug killer at both ends, the prize and the entrance. He had sprayed the pest, standing before her using his words like a knife and piercing a minuscule cut to the middle of her chest. Then he had gone on a long trip to see the prize, held hostage once again on a Russian base. There, as they ran to safety, the prize shattered into a million pieces, making him have to have his people ship his brother’s corpse back to England putting an end to his exile. From a psychological standpoint, his strategy had been flawless; without a prize to go to, the already weakened pest would leave to find greener pastures. She hadn’t. He could still remember their last conversation; how at the sight of her shattered prize, the pest had taken the knife he still had from his hand and killed herself. Mycroft Holmes, with that heart and eyes equal parts steel and ice, had watched what he now understood to be two diamonds, shatter at his feet. At school in Cambridge he had heard that diamonds are the hardest material in the world, so durable in fact, that only another diamond can so much as scratch them. That day he had seen two diamonds crash against each other, leaving only a small diamond behind. 

Diamond.

At the word, Mycroft left the monochromatic halls of his Mind Vault to reach into the pocket of his vest. Nine o’clock exactly and the antique clock upon the fireplace sounded its alarm. He was impressed it was only nine. Impressed for the entire day was one of those that if he could erase it from his Mind Vault he would. John Watson had been pressuring him for answers, his wife and crying baby girl with him. They all wanted to know how he had allowed his brother to die. If there was something that impressed Mycroft more than the day, was how everyone thought himself a critic. If they had been in my place, if they KNEW the reasons why I did what I did, they would see that they would have done the same, he had told himself countless times. No, he recognized, John Watson was far too immersed in sentiment at the moment to see clearly. Same would be true of his parents once they were alerted – not by him of course – that their youngest had been killed somewhere in the snow covered outskirts of Moscow. They would all organize another funeral, which he would not attend, and revere the memory of the now definitely diseased Sherlock Holmes. They would stand there and say and praise that they knew all that there was to know about the Great and Only Consulting Detective when only three beings could actually boast that title; A dog who died too early and by a calculating stare, a moderately clever Woman who never learned that her greatest mistake was sentiment, and an older Brother with death in his eyes. His parents and his brother’s best friend with his family would all look down and celebrate a life they barely knew without knowing the secret lying with Sherlock six feet underground. Sherlock’s last vow had cost him his life, now Mycroft had made one too and a promise only for him. Him, the man he had taken so much from. That secret was his promise, his vow was in his pocket.

In those last moments she had given him instructions and spoken with knifes instead of her voice, usually so mellifluous and soft. She had stood there in his place and spoken with his voice, making Mycroft feel the closest thing he had ever felt to remorse or to sorrow. The tables had turned and now the pest held the bug killer to his mouth, now the victim held the knife and pierced a minuscule cut to the middle of his chest. A cut that would turn into a scar, as she placed an envelope into his hand and a diamond ring into a small little finger. Dressed in black, that Woman could not have known how appropriately she had been dressed for the funeral to come. The pest lied dead beneath the grass by the tree Mycroft had once seen his brother resting against. Oh yes, he had made that pest a promise and a vow, and Mycroft Holmes was a man of his word. Once again, he was pulled out of thoughts as the antique clock ringed ten. Surely it was safe now to open that Woman’s letter. After all, nothing would happen now. The East Wind couldn’t blow when it rained.


	2. His Vow, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His vow was in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Fireloom,
> 
> whom I regard with lasting affection and respect.

_My Dearest love;_

_One day you’ll have questions. Of that I have no doubt as I write this letter down, with so much I need to say and so little time. With so many emotions pouring through me, confusing me, distracting me. My love, I want to cry. I feel an acute pain in my ribcage, as if somebody had cut through me with a knife, cutting a small incision that is slowly bleeding out beneath my black dress. It’s only logical I feel so, I suppose, yet it is inconceivable. Almost as impossible as you once were. Ordinary people grieve a loved one’s death, and to the somber sentiments of mourning it appears I am not immune. One thing you will learn from me, darling, is that throughout my life I did many things. Amazing things each and every one, teaching me a series of important skills that would help me for the rest of my life. One thing I never did and until I die don’t intend to make a habit of is crying. That sort of desperation and attachment I have only felt twice; therefore there are only two people I would possibly break that vow for. Perhaps you’ll forgive my long explanation one day in a distant future, but right now it is the only way I know to set things straight for you._

_To begin with I must state I hold no regret greater than not being able to tell you all this face to face. My death nears as I write you this letter, I can feel it in the air. Your Father once said that death had a very characteristic, forever telling scent. He said it was salty and bitter, but with that sharp freshness into the lungs that sea air normally has. In this very instant, I can smell it, the East Wind, darling, and I’m running out of time. Know that in this precise moment in time, nothing is secure and nothing is written in stone. Our lives – yours and mine – have never been calm and as unchanging as the sea, but rather turbulent and raw. You and I had drifted through the world away from England for two years now, but it was time to come home, somehow. You will find, love, that – speaking of air – nowhere in the world the air is quite the same mixture as London. Hopefully, one day you’ll discover so for yourself, although I wish we could be there to feel it with you._

_Your Uncle has said many things during our much closer acquaintance this past couple months that are slowly turning into a year. One of such golden lines of his was that when one walked beside your Father through the streets of our city, one could feel every quiver of its smoke filled heart. In a way, England beat and lived like its Consulting Detective, shrouded underneath an inconspicuous blanket of fog. This brings me back to the purpose of this letter; to say all which would otherwise remain unsaid and explain all that would have remained an unsolvable mystery after my death. One day you’ll complain that I solved one of your cases for you, but you’ll see this one was one of those that only the criminal could clear up. I’m sorry I can’t do more than leave this letter in your Uncle’s care until you are old enough to understand._

_God, I hope you can understand. I’m still not sure how I expect you to but I know you’ll surprise me. After all, you are your Father’s son. You’re my son, The Boy who was born of the Fire. The all-consuming conflagration of an entire city, a Brother’s blind rage, and your Father and I’s unrestrained passion. He was my Only Exception, and what we played was nothing more and nothing else than The Game. That Game is our story._

_A Game so grand as to extend the entire world throughout a decade; so complex as to have trapped its creators in the center of its maze; so absolutely delicious and unreal, as to fill our two logical hearts with chemical ecstasy and sentiment. A Game so Great that it killed us both._


	3. By the Eiffel Tower's Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The serenity of the dark room was broken as she woke from her restless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we all find something to hold onto, preparing ourselves for tomorrow's episode, I thought we could all use some more things to read to soothe our nerves. Just to clarify, this chapter is set conciderably before the scene with Mycroft at home in chapter 1.

The serenity of the dark room was broken as she woke from her restless slumber. This particular dream was no worse than any she had experienced before, already used to waking up tired and startled. Silently, and without opening her eyes, the late Irene Adler tried to steady her breathing, telling herself that all she had seen and all she had heard had only been a dream. Still, somehow, no matter how many times she said so, it never became any more real. After a deep breath, she opened her eyes. Anything was better than having to stare at that horrible airplane, feeling the emptiness that was always present as she sat there with her legs curled beneath her. She despised how weak she felt as she lied there helpless in bed, so carefully she stood. There was nothing to be done, she decided as she struggled to move herself from the bed and walk towards the window, other than go through every possible scenario her mind could conjure and wait. That’s when she noticed the soreness in her eyes and the trail of tears that lined them. She had been crying.

Carefully, The Woman used her nightshirt sleeve and wiped her eyes. With marked difficulty, she leaned against the wall as she looked out the window at the beautiful Eiffel Tower. The familiar structure was decorated with the colors of the French flag, glowing in reverence in the distance. It was a beautiful sight on a beautiful night, a night out of which Irene only wanted sleep. Was it too much to ask to be able to escape that horrible nightmare that chased her every dream away? It had started in a place she considered inconspicuous and familiar, like the dreams always did. Any place in the world where she felt comfortable yet incredibly vulnerable. In this occasion, her mind had chosen an airplane. She tried to identify exactly which flight her subconscious had chosen. It had been the last plane she had taken, from Chicago to Paris. A long flight where she had taken the window seat, something she mostly avoided considering her marked preference for being able to run away quickly. Also because, The Woman had learned, the people on the edge next to the hallway are the most forgettable, and if she had been something since her death it was forgettable. A ghost was the face in the crowd that nobody saw and the screams in the dark that nobody heard. Irene Adler was a ghost.

As she wiped away the tears, The Woman shed more. How very real that dream had felt. She had been on the flight trying to lean her head against the wall of the plane to sleep. It appeared that all she ever tried to do was sleep. She was so tired, more now than ever before. Her slumber had been interrupted by a text on her camera phone. A text from him that read goodbye. The memory made her heart break. Of course there had been no text at all, still the idea of one was scary. The last time they had shared the same air they had decided that a text, regardless of content, would be a goodbye. She reminded herself in between sobs of who she was and what she did, trying once again to regain her composure. She was Irene Adler, and she had seen Sherlock Holmes half a year ago, read about his endeavors every day, and thought about him every morning before opening her eyes. Nevertheless, that didn’t change the cruel reality that right now he was back in Baker Street, London where he belonged, and that she had returned to her life of running away. Things were how they were supposed to be, she knew deep within her soul, regardless of how hard it was to accept that she couldn’t see him again. After two whole years of running around the world together misbehaving and destroying and planning, it was hard to settle back into a solitary routine. Especially so, knowing that the danger they had managed to avoid together had left them vulnerable alone; knowing that now they were in far more peril than ever before. Her most of all.

How foolish they had been, she realized, staring at the window wistfully. They had managed to tangle their duty with their heart; their cold reason with unadulterated desire. She guessed it had been the trill of the game. The absolute seclusion from London and his brother had certainly brought out the malicious side of Sherlock Holmes, and the reckless/misbehaving side of her. It had been, she recognized, the most interesting venture of her life; tangling their fingers, talents and limbs with each other, hoping with all their might that the end to their holiday from death would never come. Yet, as it’s well-known, all good things come to an end, and this time the heartbreak had been too great. The memories were beginning to fade, having been vanished to the back of her Mind Palace as he got on a plane for Serbia, but she could still remember _Him_. The dark eyes with a ream of bright green around them, and the soft touch of his fingers against her wrist taking her pulse. She sighed as she closed her eyes, letting the noise of the city transport her back to Montenegro. To a city in specific, shrouded in sand,  bathed in flames at night, and sunshine in the morning. There where they had spent a night in a suite, and light highlighted his features as he held her close. How could she forget the last stop of their holiday, or the diamond ring he had bought her all because of sentiment? Unconsciously, she realized looking down, she had begun to caress her belly.

_Oh, yes, Montenegro._

Sherlock had been very inspired in Montenegro. As the city around them burned in flames, he had gone to a store and stolen a violin. He hadn’t been able to practice or play on his chosen instrument since he left London, though his experience with the violin was such that it would have been impossible to tell he hadn´t so much as held one in two years. The simple idea of stealing a violin seemed ludicrous and rather frivolous at the time to her, but then she had heard him play. As he moved his fingers diligently on the scarlet violin, Irene had changed her mind. The sound was wistful and powerful against her ears. It told a melody full of pain and feeling and sentiment. Somehow, although she knew he wouldn’t tell her if it was, she knew the song was for her. It simply _had_ to be. Sherlock played his violin to the inspiration of his muse; moved his musician fingers against the strings. Irene could feel her soul a smoldering fire, just like the one that currently was slowly engulfing the city. Guided only by the sound, or so she recalled, The Woman had stripped to her battle dress and placed her whole body against his back. The Consulting Detective had played throughout the encounter, allowing her to seduce his body like he seduced her mind. _Oh yes, that had to be when._ Irene knew it without a doubt as a kick brought her back from the memory. The baby knew the song that had played on the violin the warm night he was conceived.

She retuned her gaze down to her abdomen with an air of fondness. Never had it occurred to her that such a thing would happen to her. For _this_ to have happened she would have needed to actually care. To care _so much_ that she actually surrendered her defenses all for the sake of physical pleasure and emotional fulfillment. For _this_ to have happened he would have needed to feel the same. Both would have needed to be human, more than they had ever been, letting go of all defenses and armor, only to breathe and hold and cherish. Innumerable times they had said the same thing, _I don’t love you,_ all because it demeaned the connection they truly shared. In this very instant in time, Irene believed it to be true. _She didn’t love him._ Holding her belly’s now familiar weight against her chest she was more than just certain. As she closed her eyes, she could picture him. He stood by one of the windows of Baker Street, his imposing back to her, dressed in one of his fine suits. With a thoughtful stance, he picked up his instrument, beginning to caress the violin and its bow in his hands, breathing life into the strings. She sat upon John Watson’s chair, looking up at him for only a second before turning her body so that her legs fell to the side and her head rested against the armrest. Their love song played in her Mind Palace, lulling her to restful sleep as she lovingly caressed her belly. Softly, she hummed Montenegro’s melody and the baby kicked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes where credit is due. The Death Takes a Holiday Series was a definite inspiration, and what I personally like to believe occurred during the Great Hiatus. It is an extensive though brilliant read, and I highly admire its writers... especially because God knows the whole dynamic of writing collaborations requieres time and cooperation from two very talented people. I'm grateful for the amazing talents we have here in the Adlock yacht, really, its humbling.


	4. His Vow, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and bookmarks, really, I appreciate them. On with the show it is.

_There is no denying it, my darling boy, I loved you very much for as long as you were mine. The day of your birth, I remember to be bittersweet. Not only was I under an incredible amount of stress and sedatives, but also relatively delusional. My mind during labor drifted in and out of consciousness, I was weak and depressed. It wasn’t your fault in the least, love, it had been life. Too many open wounds, old wounds that still hurt, and unfortunate scars. Also, I was alone. Never since the events in Karachi had I felt so utterly powerless and defenseless. This time, there would be no one to call, not even your Father. He’ll never get a chance to forgive me now, but if I had to point out the worst decision of my life it would definitely have to be that day when I decided not to contact him. All I can do now is speculate that things would have turned out differently had we actually spoken. Maybe things would have turned for the better once he found out about your existence. At the time, though, I couldn’t tell him. The idea of facing him with something so clearly against his wishes repelled me. Scared me. Terrified me._

_Now, of course, I realize that I had been irrational. Your Father was my closest ally, and I loved him as unconditionally as he loved me. My Only Exception. He would have adored you the moment his eyes laid upon yours. He was always one to value perfection and intelligence, and you sparkle with both. Your presence even now irradiates your raw intellect and innocence; I imagine much like his did at your age. My darling son, I assure you that your Father would have been smitten with you in an instant. He would have seen the perfect curve of your cheekbones, the unruliness of your curls, and the brilliance of your smile; all traits that you share. Then he’d notice your fine nose, the dark shade of your hair, and the softness of your lips; in that second he’d think of me. Your eyes would be his favorite above it all, I realize, because they are uniquely yours. None of us can claim more than half of the credit for those. They are either green or blue depending on what room you’re in, what you wear, the angle at which light hits them, or your mood. A constant is the ream of grey, the metallic feel it gives to your eyes, both mine and his. Even there you are the perfect combination of the two most damaged, brilliant, unique people I know._

_My son, I have one sole hope for you. Please, no matter what the life I or your Father led throws at you, don’t change who you are. Throughout our venture to London, filled with daunting uncertainty, I want you to know you have remained my happy little angel. Stay golden, love, for everything you are is so utterly untouched by the darkness of mankind’s ways. If I could have my way, I would make sure that you never lose your unique perspective on life; that ability you have to admire and see the moments of change, not as the death of something that was grand, but as the birth of something even grander. That is the lesson that is taught by fire; that there always is light where the naked eye sees darkness. Don’t forget this, because take my word for it son, the world you have been born into is an enveloping pitch black._

_I suppose I never explained the motive behind your name. Personally, one part of me hoped it would be a great inside joke between your Father and I. Another to dazzle and confuse both Uncles of yours. Perhaps, I will achieve both considering the fact that you won’t be reading this letter for a while. But, I digress. Hamish was the part of your name that was easiest to choose; the part that would have made your Father and Uncle John laugh. During one of our talks, entirely business mind you, John must have felt your Father and I had moved the conversation towards flirting instead of working so, I presume, as a joke suggested his middle name as an ideal baby name. Hamish is rather beautiful (despite the fact that the good doctor isn’t exactly fond of it), and judging by your Father’s attachment to John Watson – and my personal penchant for puns – I decided to take him up on his offer. As for Nero… I like the meaning behind the name – not that I believe that it will have any defining influence over your life. By definition, your name means “powerful”. It was originally the name of an ancient Roman Emperor, one who will be forever remembered to have been the one who fiddled while Rome burned. Because of his absolute destruction of his city, ordinary people always think of him as an infamous emperor. I never saw him like that, but, then again, I am not an ordinary person._

_My guess as to why most people would think his actions unreasonable is the fact that most people have never actually seen a city in flames. Well, as you now know, your Father and I have, and at that, very closely. When you see all those manmade buildings collapse into rubble and smoke, your life is really put into perspective. You see, Nero, an existential question that reaches ordinary minds many times a day is: “What will cause the end of the world as we know it? The sun exploding and scorching Earth, or another ice age courtesy of global warming?”_

_In synthesis, what is more destructive; fire or ice?_


	5. A Red Rose by the Window Pane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Woman knew without an ounce of doubt in her mind that the whole idea was not only ludicrous but also very dangerous. Holding her baby boy to her with her left hand, she began her climb up the tree towards the branch nearest the hospital window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked at the chapters... we're half way through.

The Woman knew without an ounce of doubt in her mind that the whole idea was not only ludicrous but also very dangerous. She was, after all, in no condition to do something so risky and physically demanding. Nevertheless, she reminded herself, one didn’t always get to choose when things would occur. One only got to choose how to take things as they came. Silently, Irene took in a deep breath and pulled her baby to her chest. _Yes, most definitely not the way I would have done this,_ she thought to herself as he stirred slightly. She hummed in the absolute back of her throat, sending more vibrations down her breast than anything else. The infant relaxed, breathing once again in a steady rhythm as Irene rocked him from side to side without releasing him from her tight grip. Another deep breath, and The Woman made a decision. _There is no going back now._

Holding her baby boy to her with her left hand, The Woman began her climb up the tree towards the branch nearest the hospital window. It required a massive amount of upper body strength, something Irene didn’t currently have, so instead she made it a thing of custom. She had climbed the trees in her backyard and at school for years. Most of the happy memories in her Mind Palace went back to those joyful days at the top of the garden trees. At times she would hide there from people for hours on end, carrying a bag with supplies and food. There was no reason for her to be unable to climb; after all, her son was only a year old. Closing her eyes, The Woman entered her Mind Palace, visualizing her childhood self all those years back. Within her mental realm, she was only a girl of thirteen, carrying a heavy bag in her left hand, climbing into her tree house.

Carefully immersed in her fantasy, Irene had no problem reaching the top of the tree. From there it was just a small climb to the correct window. Years as a dominatrix had earned her prodigious flexibility, so The Woman managed to sneak herself and her precious cargo into the sterile room’s window with deft expertise. Once inside, Irene walked towards the nearest chair and sat. With some effort, she recovered her breathing. _Man, am I out of shape,_ she mussed for a second as her attention was called to her son. Little Nero was still asleep, peacefully at that. She would never understand why Nero seemed to sleep faster when placed against her breast. Perhaps it was that scent that Sherlock had often mentioned she had. _What was it that he said? Cashmir._ Realizing the window was still open wide, she stood to close it. Still silent as a shadow thanks to the fact that she had taken her sky-high heels off, she walked towards the small window, not forgetting to leave her son on the chair.

The window closed with a soft thud, and with it she released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. _Finally._ After three days of planning, she was finally at the hospital room. From the moment she had heard from her web that the Consulting Detective had gotten himself shot, she had been afraid. More so when she heard who had shot him. _The Assassin._ She could still remember her one and only encounter with the infamous Assassin. It was said she was a perfect dead shot, and yet she had not managed to kill The Woman. They had been face to face; The Woman had come to pick up one of her String’s packets with top-secret information on the American government, while The Assassin had come to intercept that packet. Little did she know about that woman, other than she was a CIA trained agent, with a history of unsuccessful love affairs, and that she was  _blonde_ and _old._ The Woman had had a taste of The Assassin’s marksmanship as she escaped with a massive wound on her left leg; a new one for Sherlock to deduce during their escapades in the Great Hiatus. Talking about the Great Hiatus, Irene realized that Nero wasn’t even a concept at the time of their encounter. Moments like that really put one’s life into perspective, Irene thought to herself before returning her attention to the man on the hospital bed with the blinking lights. Most important of all, after two years of separation, they were finally together again.

How it broke Irene’s heart to see him like that. Languid and immobile, connected to morphine through a cable in his wrist. The Great Consulting Detective reduced to a bed-ridden, _ordinary_ man who had just gotten himself shot. Talking about things that really put one’s life into perspective. Silently, she walked towards Sherlock taking in the extent of his slumber. Although the idea of having him wake up was tempting, it would only complicate things. There really weren’t either the right conditions to talk or the time. And really far too many _intimate_ subjects to discuss. No, she would be content with just paying her respects. She would _have_ to be content with just seeing him again. A wordless visit. A speechless demonstration of devotion and affection. That was how they worked best, she conceded, as she walked to the computer administering the morphine. She had learned many things from her brief acquaintance with drugs, especially heroin and morphine, and one of them was the way to calculate just the right amount to overdose. What could she say? Sometimes it was far more appealing to feel numb; to softly be carried in the arms of a lady dressed in white into a land of restless sleep. Now, knowing Sherlock’s experiences and, rather extreme past with morphine, she _deduced_ that going overboard to thrice his current amount would be enough to send him to the lady dressed in white thoroughly. _Sorry Sherlock_ , she whispered as he let out a soft sigh.

As his skin turned paler than usual, and his breaths even more in-between, Irene relaxed. His body had entered that coma-like status of sleepless slumber. She moved back to the chair then, taking her heels from the bag she had put them in, and placing them on the floor. He would be happy to know that at least from her calves down she once again looked like Irene Adler. Her attention returned to the boy who had moved to rest his head against the armrest. His tangled curls to the side as a shapeless mass, Nero was practically drooling and blissfully unaware of exactly where he was. Any soft surface in a well-smelling place, and the darling boy could cuddle up and snooze. Calm at last, The Woman ruffled her son’s head fondly, placing a kiss to his soft forehead. Out of her bag also came a rose. A single red rose, for he had always said she smelled like roses. Also, the romantic idiot would decide that it was a token only the Detective’s significant other could have possibly given him. A red rose full of sentiment. Next to the rose a note with a “W” and a scarlet kiss. She smiled as one last look at her son revealed just how far away Nero was. Now she could dedicate all her senses to her Detective.

Once again she reached his bedside. Noticing how asleep Sherlock was, Irene entertained a brief thought that made her smile ruefully. _Father and son’s first meeting and none is awake to witness it but me._ Regardless of such a fact, she decided it was better that way. She was still too afraid to face Sherlock about Nero. He was so unpredictable, she wasn’t sure how he would react. Considering his currently fragile health, she was only further assured that her decision was the correct one. Sadly. They would get along so well. If Sherlock saw the utter perfection of their son, he would overlook the fact that he had been an accident. _A beautiful accident_ , she reminded herself with a sidelong look at the boy.  Staring at Sherlock, with her heart pounding against her ears so loudly as to be a whole set of drums, Irene decided that distance was unnecessary. Careful with the cables and the sheets, Irene lowered herself to seat beside him on the bed. There he was, so calm and peaceful and _warm._ Warm like he had been in Karachi, throughout Europe, and in Montenegro as he played a scarlet violin. She whispered his name, caressing the letters with her tongue as a substitute to caressing his lips with her mouth.

_Oh, Sherlock_.

She shed a solitary tear as she opened the buttons of his shirt, something she had done countless times before, finding the bandages of the wound. He had been shot in the middle of his chest, almost deadly and not quite centered. _The Assassin_ , she decided wasn’t as good a shot anymore. She passed the fingers of her left hand carefully over the wound. Her right hand had gone to the familiar place of his curls, the Montenegrin diamond ring still on after all this time. Another tear as she heard him wince weakly. He had almost died, she reminded herself, and all with her miles away. What a painful reunion it would have been if, instead of by his bed, she was crying by his grave. Leaving the shirt open but making a mental note of where not to touch and what hand was connected to a machine, Irene moved in order to lie bedside him. _Closer to him, as close as we can be._ She rested her head upon his uninjured shoulder out of habit, although, she supposed, it had probably finally healed, considering the fact that their holiday appeared to have been centuries ago. He was warm under her, and briefly she missed the feeling of having him lace his fingers with hers, or his embracing her, or his caressing of her hair. _She missed him._ What odd feelings sentiment brought. It was this certain warmth that came to her every time he held her, or whenever Nero smiled. What sort of disadvantage made your heart flutter? Made you melt with liquid desire? She guessed she’d never find out.

The skin of his chest was as soft as she recalled, and just as warm. His arm was strong and firm, despite the obvious lack of movement. _Oh yes, that’s what it felt like._ This is what it felt like to wake up by his side. The steady grip of his hand on the curve of her waist was just an added bonus. Then she noticed the scent. The sharp bite of Nicotine despite the overall sterile feel of the room, and the smell of his cologne. The only place where the Nicotine was even further obvious was inside his mouth; when they kissed she could clearly taste it. Slowly, she basked in his warmth and while staring at their son began to fall into restless sleep herself. The room was all that existed in that singular, _exceptional, sentimental,_ moment.

Then the door opened, allowing the bright light from outside to enter the room. Based on Sherlock’s deduction that everybody had a scent, she guessed this particular man’s scent was that of coffee. Cups and cups of coffee with gallons of crème had to be served for him every day. That particular sharp smell of something that is just an illusion. Many times she had told Sherlock the same; _if coffee tasted as good as it smelled more people would indulge in the vice._ If Mycroft Holmes was as pleasant and familiar as he smelled, it would be easier to be in his presence. Without opening her eyes, Irene Adler pulled her armor about herself. That gorgeous moment of sentimentality was gone.

_“I’ve heard Karachi is beautiful this time of year,”_ The Iceman started walking into the room with practiced nonchalance. Obviously her appearance had surprised him. This was his default conversation starter it appeared.

_“I would be more careful, Mr. Holmes. Your brother’s health is very delicate.”_

_“Which explains the reason why you have him in a morphine-induced coma state.”_

At those words Irene opened her deep blue eyes and stared at the man’s cold stance. _“I thought you’d appreciate my taking care of him and his health.”_

Then Mycroft Holmes moved into the room, closing the door behind him. _“I would ask how it is that you’re alive, but the answer is obvious. My dear brother obviously managed to sneak you far from my gaze.”_

Irene then sat up, her left hand remaining on Sherlock’s chest as it slowly rose and fell, completely undisturbed by Mycroft’s arrival. She said nothing, preferring to watch the Iceman’s movements. He was dangerously close to Nero.

_“Then again, I could also ask you how your little adventure together around Eastern Europe went, but that answer would also be obvious.”_ He said nonchalantly walking by the army of flowers in the room. The comment took Irene by surprise.

_“Sorry?”_

_“Elementary.”_

He turned towards her with unbecoming resolve and focus. A perfectly cold and calculating stare that took her breath away. Sherlock’s stare had once done that too; the night in his brother’s house where he had condemned her to the life of a ghost. The connection between both irises made her feel distinctly…cold.

_“It’s present in your features, Ms. Adler. Also in the position of your hand.”_ Mycroft Holmes made a pause. She had underestimated his observation powers. _“The left hand on my brother’s chest demonstrates possessiveness, such that can only be obtained through experience. The only moment he was far from my gaze enough would be those two years that he was ‘dead’ and combating Moriarty’s web. That was when your relationship became more complex and… shall we say, intimate?”_

With cold in his steps, the Iceman came to the bedside and using his umbrella moved a stray hair from her face. _“Your features have matured and, some, enlarged. Obvious changes can be expressed in your once perfect measurements and breasts, for example. Less noticeable changes are present in the bags of your eyes and the bite marks in your bottom lip.”_ That same expressionless mask remained in his visage as he finished his deductions. _“Conclusion: the result of your mutual escapade, the conceiving of a child.”_

The elder Holmes then looked back at The Woman, before turning his back to her and gazing at where Nero rested peacefully. All Mycroft could see from a distance was the pair of towering, red-soled high heels and the thick mass of curls belonging to a little boy. Upon closer inspection, a child of no more than a year, compliant to his deductions. He was a rather handsome-looking boy, clearly his brother’s yet also clearly that woman’s. There was something to him, though, that was innocent and pure even from a far. Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to disturb the sleeping child that, like his younger brother, was so blissfully asleep. _“What’s his name?”_

_“I thought you knew everything.”_

_“There are some things that not even I can predict, Ms. Adler.”_

_“Nero Hamish Adler Holmes.”_

There wasn’t much to say. The atmosphere seemed to ease as the Iceman presented some sort of sentimentality by reaching to touch Nero’s curls, probably to assure himself that what he was looking at was true. To be honest with himself, Mycroft’s head was completely blank.

_“Nero? Like the Roman emperor that burned Rome?”_

_“Yes. You know that I am fond of irony.”_

_“And of people who betray their own country.”_

_“I thought you’d appreciate the exotic name.”_

For a moment the air turned familiar. This was nothing but the Uncle and Mother discussing the Child. And yet, to anyone who had at least some background on them, this was a miracle all on its own. Still, there were two ways this conversation could continue. Either the Iceman reacted with careful apprehension or with dismissive hate. _Fire or Ice?_ Irene wasn’t sure which reaction he feared most, but was sure that the late Moriarty’s nickname for the elder Holmes had some truth in reality.

_"This doesn’t change anything for you Ms. Adler.”_

_Ice it is._

_“I am the Mother of your only nephew, Mr. Holmes. I think a little protection is in order. Or, in the least, a little discretion.”_

_“I don’t believe it is in the best interest of the UK to allow Moriarty’s web’s Queen back into London. Be her family or not.”_

_“Sherlock would disagree.”_

_“He apparently doesn’t mind when I disapprove of things he does. I really don’t see why I should care.”_

An alarm, noisy and cacophonic went off in The Woman’s head. She had to escape as soon as possible. First, she discreetly returned Sherlock’s morphine to a normal level. Then she stood, careful not to trip on any cables. _“It would certainly be unwise_ , _Mr. Holmes.”_

_“Would it be, Ms. Adler? You have always been a pest in my eyes.”_ He made a subtle pause. _“As a boy, I was taught that one must stop pests before they spread.”_

It hurt like acid on old wounds, but her movements got the elder Holmes to move closer to the opposite end of the room. Closer to Sherlock’s sleeping form. _Perfect._ Irene then grabbed Nero and placed him against her chest, careful with his face and the softness that came to one as one slept. As Mycroft gave his back to her, she grabbed her things and moved towards the window, single handedly opening it wide enough to jump out from. Wind blew into the room, making Irene’s dress flutter and the light against her illuminated the red in her soles.

_“Elementary. Goodnight Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”_

With that the Woman fell into the darkness of the night, wrapping herself in it like a cloak. The Iceman walked to the window and screamed after the shadow of a woman with all his resolve of coldness fading. _“I will stop you Ms. Adler. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”_

Carefully, he closed the open window. She had left nothing in disarray except Sherlock’s shirt which was still open. The Iceman took a seat then, the reality of a new Holmes heir finally becoming real in his mind’s eye.

_Irene Adler._

_Out of all the women in England._

He placed his hands in that same position Sherlock’s often were, almost as if in prayer. He sighed ruefully and took in a deep, shuddering breath. What to do with this new information? Use it against her? Certainly. But, how? There had to be a way that didn’t involve exposing the boy or his parentage. Then, with steel resolve, Mycroft turned his gaze to his brother who slowly was beginning to return from his sleepless coma state.

_As long as I can help it, you will never know the massive mistake you have made, brother mine._


	6. Easy Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes was a man of his word, and as such, he fulfilled the promise he had made Irene Adler that night in Sherlock’s hospital room. All it took was an easy plan with no space for human error.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back.  
> Let's complete this story, shall we? It'd be a shame to leave it abandoned forever.

Mycroft Holmes was a man of his word, and as such, he fulfilled the promise he had made Irene Adler that night in Sherlock’s hospital room. He had found her, and the moment she fell into his hand, he made sure she couldn’t escape by closing his fist around her. Interrogation took place for months where he would question her about the Web. Strictly business conversations, and always in the flat he had imprisoned her in. Always avoiding the subject of his brother or the boy.

The flat was strategically chosen to be within walking distance of the Diogenes club. He was particularly careful because it was important to keep his brother in the dark at all costs. Not only out of his own preference, but also at The Woman’s strict instruction. They had agreed upon his first visit – one where Irene had been breastfeeding Nero in the living room wearing nothing but a dressing gown, completely ignoring Mycroft’s disgusted stare – that no matter the circumstances, Sherlock was not to know. About their acquaintance. About his interrogating the Queen of the Criminal Web. About his son.

Somehow, Mycroft seemed to get the feeling that The Woman was enjoying her current situation. Despite her technical incarceration, not much of her routine had actually changed and now, since she was under the Iceman's constant vigil, he catered to her and Nero's every need. She hadn’t set foot upon London soil since the day he had finally apprehended her and taken her to the flat. When struck by the sudden fancy, the Iceman recalled that specific mission with a feeling of mischief. _He had been very clever._ One of the cameras had caught that Woman in a store buying a new cell phone; one of those with exchangeable SIM cards that were virtually untraceable. _Very Her._ She had taken that phone and immediately texted to a number that they had, to this day and Mycroft’s dismay, not been able to identify. Then she had walked out of the store, but traffic cameras followed her. Anthea had recommended to send a strike team of MI6 to intercept her, but he had refused. _Oh, no._ _He_ would personally make Ms. Adler a visit.

His plan to capture her had been easy in its essence, he recognized. Easy plans had always worked better than complex ones. The best part about it was that no human error could occur. Also, never mind the fact that he was thoroughly above such menial things, it could very well satisfy an ordinary man’s need for _revenge._ Using time wisely and with frigid calculation, Mycroft Holmes had sent the MI6 Anthea had wanted, but their job was only to distract the pest and scare her to her hiding spot. They had chased her and she had proven her skill; months of training had probably restored the original beauty of her versatility. Still, by the time the pest had reached her nest, the Iceman was holding her son. Damn pleased with himself, Mycroft recalled how, using the intel from his agents, he had successfully entered the flat and carefully knocked out the woman watching the child. He recognized her for a second and nothing more, presuming that perhaps he had seen her in another case. Such a vivid shade of orange in hair was a rather rare thing in London these days.

With the redheaded woman down, the Iceman approached the cot where the boy was wide awake. The moment their eyes met he swallowed hard. That shade of green with a soft ream of grey in his irises only caused the already startling symmetry to become even more uncanny. Even now sometimes it appeared to Mycroft that Irene had managed to create a living clone of his little brother more than a child of her own. That first meeting with the child awake had restored that odd feeling he had felt on the only other meeting they had had. He even felt as close as he thought he’d ever feel to regret for what he’d do next. His nephew’s presence was enough to melt at least slightly into the armor he wore. There was something so _raw_ and _familiar_ about the boy. _His nephew_ , he noted with the dreadful sentiment of _pride_ crawling in for only an instant.

Careful as he’d never been before with anything else, Mycroft lifted the infant to his arms. He had to be a little bit over a year if not more, and certainly heavy enough to assert that he was well fed and cared for. Of course, he conceded, that Woman would care for the child with devotion; it was, after all, also hers. Judging from the hurried sounds of the high-heeled stilettos coming from behind the door in the staircase, he could tell that she would be upon them at any moment. He began to reaffirm his steely façade and deadpan stare, prepared to face that Woman in battle. Prepared to demonstrate to her that he was a man of his word. He had promised her he’d catch her, that she couldn’t run forever, and he intended to fulfill said promise. In the last precious seconds, all his armor successfully on, Mycroft made a fatal mistake. He looked down into the confused infant’s eyes.

The door opened, but Mycroft payed it no heed. He was looking at the miraculous boy with raven curls atop his head. The one who gazed upon his armor and after a second of confusion at his disguise, opened his tiny mouth and smiled. He couldn’t help but allow a minute movement of his lips as well. He was such a ridiculous boy. Why was he smiling? What was there to smile about? He was here to take his mother to prison for conspiracy and treason and murder and thievery. And yet, the youngest Holmes smiled. An unadulterated expression of joy. A fire burning bright behind the clearly intelligent irises. When the Iceman finally did look up to the consulting criminal in the doorway, she was smirking. _So long, plan._

_Yep. Intimidation wouldn’t do anymore. Not with the boy looking at him with that goofy smile._

What occurred afterwards was what The Woman would deem the flip side of the coin. The Iceman had reacted in this specific occasion with careful apprehension instead of dismissive hate. _Fire_ had won over _Ice._ It had certainly been disconcerting to experience the Iceman feeling such warm emotions, but, she recognized, it was certainly better for a conscious Nero to see a cooperative Uncle Mycroft than an angry, violent one.

That had been the first time since the night in his office that Mycroft found himself forced to deal with Irene Adler in a formal, business-like way. No matter how the tables turned, he would need that Woman’s submission to his demands. There would be no power play or any sort of violence, as the plan had originally required, opting better for diplomacy for the sake of the child. The boy was golden and innocent and a fire burned so brightly within him that the Ice in the Iceman melted away. There simply was no option but to work with that Woman under the current circumstances. Of course, he knew, what her incarceration had somehow become over time was more of a partnership where she was in a protection program of sorts, unbound in any way to help him, but still receiving all sort of prerogatives. At the time though, Mycroft had innocently found it miraculous that she would surrender into his palm with such ease. One condition – other than her established _protection_ and privileges – was all she put.

_Sherlock was not to know of their partnership under any circumstances._ The ‘ _or the boy_ ’ was unspoken between them but somehow fully understood.

Nevertheless, Mycroft Holmes’ particular brand of patience was running short. He had the Woman trapped, yes, and yet he had made no substantial progress. Whatever information she gave was sometimes inconsequential and her Web somehow continued to be indomitable. Apparently even behind the four walls and windows of a British flat without a foot in the outside world for months, the Queen was still unreachable and her Web unstoppable. She had reached a point of utter status quo and peace. She was not bothered, had her every whim catered, and her necessities taken care of. To the Iceman it appeared that the partnership started only a couple months ago was staring to reach its expiration date. After all, she was being a _pest_ more than an asset. _Oh, yes._ Ms. Adler had forgotten over these months of utter commodity that she was still nothing but a _pest_ to Mycroft Holmes.

He had come to the unsavory realization that Ms. Adler thought him stupid. Perhaps not the same level as the ordinary people around them, but not at her level of cleverness. Then again, that was what sentiment did to people. It made them widely misjudge circumstances. Therefore, today the Iceman had a plan. A plan he would stick by. An _easy_ plan with no space for human error with him as its sole executor. That Woman would pay. She would for Mycroft was not stupid and because he was desperate and tired. The Web his brother had given the Woman as a present was what he wanted for Christmas this year and he was prepared to steal it from her dead fingers if necessary.

He had been very meticulous, showing up at the flat in a day he was not scheduled to visit. A visit to Heathrow Airport in his private jet previously arranged, and all the proper signs of travel clear on his features and clothes. The signs of an _unexpected and hastily arranged_ trip that is. He had gone to the flat with the specific words memorized and carved into his subconscious so deeply that they sounded more organic that his own name to his mind. Mycroft was let into the flat and immediately went to seat on his usual place on the couch. Across from him, on the floor, was his nephew. Nero played with wooden blocks, stacking them as tall as he could. Meanwhile the Iceman just waited for the _pest_ to return.

Irene Adler floated down the stairs from the top floor, wearing a knitted shirt sweater with long sleeves, jeans and hair in an intricate bun. “ _Mr. Holmes, thank goodness you’re here. I was wondering what to get you for Christmas next week, but now you have given me the perfect idea.”_

Mycroft Holmes stared aghast at the nonchalance, but keeping his mission clearly in mind, he proceeded unfazed. _Better to let her believe that she’s in control._

_“Do tell, Ms. Adler.”_

_“A calendar, of course. You are a day early, Iceman.”_

_“I thought it best to make you a visit in person to alert you as to the nature of my unexpected travels.”_

_“Well, Christmas IS next week, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn’t find it indiscreet of you to make your brother a visit for the holidays, it which case give him my love.”_

The Iceman made a pained expression. Practiced into the mirror carefully a dozen times before going into battle. _“In a way you are right, Ms. Adler. I shall visit my brother, sadly not with the holidays as my objective.”_

The Woman seemed on edge and confused for only a second. What other purpose could there be? _“I don’t understand.”_

_“That’s quite alright, when I found out I couldn’t believe it myself.”_

_“Found out what, Iceman?”_

_“Sherlock has fallen terribly sick, and I have been called to sign in his will.”_

Irene Adler remained stoic and only the twitch in her left hand could possibly give away the shot that had just gone straight to her heart. Mycroft decided to fuel the fire consuming her to burn brighter. The bluer the flame, the hotter the fire. _“As it turns out the bullet wound from a couple months ago managed to pierce one of his lungs on the side. You are well aware that Sherlock has the dreadful habit of smoking? Of course you do. Well, the nicotine infected the originally undetected wound, and now, because of his own carelessness, he’s dying.”_

During his speech, Irene had managed to drag herself all the way down the steps and to stand before the Iceman. Mycroft, on his own, had stood and was facing her. Looking down into the deep blue eyes of his brother’s Woman, Mycroft himself could believe his own lie. _“I shall be gone for a couple of days to arrange the will and his funerary arrangements in London. I trust this won’t be a problem with you, Ms. Adler? After all, in case you need anything, you know how to contact me.”_

The Woman’s skin turned cold as _ice. Ice_ like the Iceman’s move, filled with dismissive hate. Taking a step away from her, Mycroft looked expectant of an answer. Irene could only nod briefly, and let out a choked, frozen breath she didn’t know she had been holding. The moment he left her immediate atmosphere her heart rate lowered. With that the Iceman reached for the door and walked away. She had underestimated his knowledge of her, and had considered in her foolishness that all Nero could be, was an advantage against him.  She had been wrong in her sentiment. In his most rudimentary basis, Nero was a physical embodiment of the mutual sentiment between Sherlock and her. And sentiment, as Sherlock had been kind enough to point out, was a chemical defect found on the losing side. The _pest_ had just been sprayed with a healthy dose of bug killer.

With the Iceman gone, Irene could gaze down at the stab he had left on her chest. Sherlock was dying, and once again she was miles away and unable to move. Nothing in this world hurt quite as much as knowing that a life was a dwindling flame atop a candle. Placing a hand over her newest wound, Irene Adler reached for her son. Little Hamish had been playing on the floor, and seeing his Mother so upset made him open his eyes wide. The same expression he had directed at his Uncle months ago returned to his face, full of confusion that would probably never become a smile.

He allowed himself to be lifted from his wooden cubes, and, once placed against Irene’s hip on her right side, they both went back upstairs. Within the security of her bedroom, Irene closed the door to the flat and to her heart. She needed to see what damage had been done. She laid little Nero on the bed as she stripped off her clothes, replacing the dressing gown she had worn all day. She also pulled the pins from her hair, allowing the bun to finally come undone. Carefully, she laid down on the bed, placing her head against her pillow and holding her son to her chest. Nero gazed in bewilderment as his Mother cried salt tears while holding him with an iron grip. She smelt like roses and her son smelt like only a baby can smell. Nero was a good boy who didn’t complain even if he didn’t understand what was going on and preferred to be downstairs playing with his wooden cubes. She faintly smiled at the way her son was looking up at her. His eyes had turned her particular shade of blue with that ever-present ream of grey above a sad frown. Irene caressed and tangled her fingers in those raven curls, realizing that all she could do was hope. Once again, all she could do was wait. She cried those salt tears that Sherlock used to wipe away with his forefinger, and kissed their son’s head. Slowly, listening to Nero’s even breathing, Irene fell asleep feeling a distinct _pain_ in her heart.


	7. His Vow, Part 3

_You could also consider the dilemma from a different perspective. What is more destructive, hate or desire? As you live your life, Nero you will come to your own conclusions. All I can offer you is my personal insight on the matter._

_From my own experience I can attest that both are incredibly destructive of their own right. Your father would argue that desire comes with a much stronger incentive: love. Not that he would know anything about love, and since neither do I, I won’t waste my time using that as an excuse. I have always been one to stick to things I can prove; evidence is one thing that I have never lacked in my theories. I knew your Father would come and rescue me from death all those years ago based entirely on the fact that I could see he cared about me in his eyes. Your Father and I had a way of communication that it truly breaks my heart to know you will never see, darling. When his gray-green eyes would lock with mine, I could feel them fusing their colors into the very mixture that can be seen in your eyes. If you ever want to know what color were his irises, Nero, all you have to do is stand before the mirror and gaze at them as you laugh. Joy, somehow, seems to project your Father’s green in your orbs while sadness brings out my deep blue. Curious, indeed._

_Regarding the conundrum, I’m guessing I will always be partial towards desire as a better weapon for I have wielded it before in my past life. There was a time, my son, when love was just a game. Perhaps it’s my own narcissism speaking, but I was the best at my game. In fact, I was a renowned champion. I’ve come to the conclusion that the reason I was so good dealt with the fact that I didn’t really care about anything but winning. It mattered little to me who was involved, or just how morally right my movements were. Feelings and people were inconsequential and mattered nothing. I didn’t care about the sentiments behind love or what it was supposed to mean to the people involved, all that was ordinary. I effectively ruined your Uncle Mycroft once with the aid of desire, your father’s desire at that. Multiple people can claim that, darling, I was a nightmare dressed as a daydream._

_On the other hand, I can perfectly see how hate can be destructive. Even after all these years I can remember how your father used his hate to destroy me. Let it be said that a lesson comes from hate, and that is regret. When you destroy someone out of spite, Nero, you feel regret. Regret and heartbreak are not the same. Heartbreak comes from the pain of unrequited affection, while regret will fill your mind with remorse and make you question your motives for what you did. Hate makes you the murderer. Heartbreak will only make the hole in your heart feel open wide, making you mourn the connection you thought you had. Heartbreak makes you the victim. Your father regretted it, Nero, and therefore he was always gentle with me. He knew he had taken my life from my hands and forced me into a life I otherwise wouldn't have led. He had killed me with his hate, although, I’m sure, he knew I could have killed him from desire. He is killing me from desire._

_The Iceman preferred Ice, though. I discovered throughout our very forced acquaintance, that his hate for the Woman who brought a nation to its knees never actually cooled. He was always cold and dismissive towards me, and I’m vastly impressed that in the end, my demise won’t come from his hand directly. Nevertheless Nero, know that I would much rather die by your Uncle’s hand as he stabs a knife through my chest, than by knowing of your father’s death. Sentiment, he had cleverly said, was a chemical defect found in the losing side. Once again, I was to lose by his hand._

_He was very clever that Iceman, sadly in my innocence I decided to believe I could outwit him. If I hadn’t tried to be clever, perhaps I could have managed to go with him on his trip to your father’s bedside that fateful December. I don’t believe in regrets, as I said Fire is my favorite method of destruction, but if I did, my foremost regret would be to have played Mycroft Holmes so. When he returned I was already sick and in bed. So bad was the situation that you weren’t allowed by my side unless when you were in his arms. It is still so, this very morning when I saw you, Kate brought you as close as the doctor allows of me. It breaks my heart to know that you suffer so, my little Hamish._

_For every time you visit, and they drag you away from me, you cry._

_You already understand what no one wants to tell you, and what everyone is avoiding to tell me, but somehow we both know._

_I’m going to die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave a comment and review. I'd love to hear from you. :)


	8. Covered in Russian Frost and Grime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft infiltrates a Russian base to rescue his brother in a hopeful effort to avoid himself future inconveniences... but Sherlock is unpredictable in the best of circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking about this story a lot lately, and about the tremendous amount of stories that over time go unfinished for years. I thought I could maybe finally finish this one. Here go the last couple chapters... Hope you all like them :)
> 
> \- Red

Looking out the window of the fortress, Mycroft Holmes held his breath. An entire underground complex without a single trace of sunlight. A single trace of whatever sunlight Russians got; however much that might be. Only one thing could disgust the Iceman and that was dirty cramped spaces. He wasn’t claustrophobic or any ridiculous matter of the sort, mind you. He just happened to have a marked preference for luxury and open air. Even sunlight could be missed, he came to recognize from within the bunker walls. The light yet brilliant green of his childhood backyard too, apparently. Other than the obvious torture that spending time in this military complex was, Mycroft could clearly agree that the worst part of the trip had definitely been having to stand up from his desk. He dreaded travel and he despised legwork. Already in two separate occasions he had had to leave the comfort of his office and his leather chair and his lavish house with a fireplace to come to the frozen outskirts of Moscow to pull his troublesome little brother out from a mission. 

Sherlock just hadto kill Magnussen. He just  _had_ to. In every sense of the word, murderwas notin any way good. One didn’t commit murder under  _any_ circumstances. But, of course, Sherlock Holmes thought otherwise. He thought that because somebody’s actions were not strictly legal or morally correct they were worthy of death. Of course, he didn’t think it through before pulling the trigger with that odd swagger he carried about him as he worked. When in Consulting Detective mode, Sherlock, Mycroft had come to comprehend after various exercises, didn’t consider consequences and just worked on impulse. It was no surprise he had become a murderer. Hence the reason why Mycroft currently found himself in Moscow. Yeah, he could have chosen a different punishment for Sherlock’s act of defiance. One that required less legwork and unnecessary travel… After all, when it came to defining Sherlock's fate, everybody had looked up to him to choose. He recognized that everyone had been fine with just putting Sherlock behind bars, yet somehow, Mycroft knew that was a bad idea. It had been insufficient. Sherlock was too big, in every sense of the word. His reputation and fame had grown so far beyond his mere self that placing him in jail would have actually made him an icon for a rebellion and caused riots more than showed him or anyone discipline. Also, as much as his brother hated to admit it, he was an adult in desperate need to begin acting his age and taking responsibility for his actions.  _Yes_ , he accepted now more than ever,  _choosing_ _little brother’s p_ _unishment was meant to punish_ _m_ _y_ _self_ _too_. To teach everyone a lesson.

Sherlock above all had to be shown that there would be no mercy shown to murder out of spite. He had told him so, Mycroft knew he had warned him, outside their parents’ house that Christmas morning as they smoked.  _Charles Augustus Magnussen wasn’t and had never been a dragon for him to slay._ It had been imperative to Mycroft to demonstrate his all-too-comfortable brother that, yes, he was there to help him get away with his usual puzzles, but not to get him out of criminal problems of a political scale. Sherlock could say whatever he wanted, but Mycroft knew the real reason he had terminated Magnussen. It had been  _hate_ , the Iceman was sure. Sure it was still just a conjecture of his, but somehow he knew that his baby brother had wielded  _ice_  unfairly at his opponent to secure his dominance. The younger Holmes had obviously had a need to defy his older sibling. Knowing of and disagreeing with his long-standing alliance with Magnussen, Sherlock had probably gotten the idea in his stupid little brain to terminate he whom he believed brought Mycroft more trouble than use.  _How selfish of Sherlock,_ Mycroft thought to himself without a trace of irony in his own foolish perspective. 

It had also been important to do damage control. The British people had to understand and see that the Iceman – or the British Government, whichever they preferred – had no bias when it came to punishment. No one –  _not John Watson, not Mary Watson, not the average citizen, not the average criminal, not Sherlock_ _, not his fellow MI6_ _–_ is above the law and too important to get what they deserve. He had to, in a way, prove the reputation he had earned of having a frozen heart. Blow away the idea that his one weakness was his detective/junkie little brother. Sending Sherlock away to his ultimate demise had never been something he had actually considered. He had actually told him to deny the offer back when he had had a chance to avoid the ordeal. Yet, in the end, it had proven to be the perfect way to put his feet back on the ground. To wake Sherlock from his dream and into reality. 

But Mycroft had punished himself too by sending his brother away on that plane to his death in what he predicted to be 6 months. He had protected Sherlock from the very beginning. Shielded him from the pain and the responsibility of the world. Little Sherlock would say Mycroft abandoned him early in his teenage years, leaving him to fend for himself, but Mycroft could argue he hadn’t. He had always thought of what would be better for him, even from a distance. For a very long time now, since that prophetic day that now was more legend than reality – that which Sherlock had taken to call his  _fall from grace_ with that dramatic flair he favored – he had had no option but to care for him from afar. By placing him on this assignment, Mycroft had hoped to chastise and force himself to stop doing everything for his brother. He had expected that by putting Sherlock far away he would finally stop having the reflex he apparently had to come and save him every time. He realized as he reached the outside of the cell his brother was currently sleeping in, that he would never abandon him, not even now. That, the reflex he had was nothing but a brotherly need to help him and be there for him… to make up for the mistakes of the past. In his need to prove a point, he had put Sherlock in the way of great danger, and that was something he had made the decision to never do again. Especially now when Sherlock’s life was as instrumental in other people's lives as he was in his own. Now that Sherlock had a reason to finally grow up and take responsibility.  _Now,_ Mycroft thought somewhere deep within his subconscious,  _that he has that Woman back i_ _n his life and…_ _Nero._   

Armed with self-righteousness, Mycroft entered the room and closed it behind him. Asleep in the small straw bed was Sherlock Holmes, or at least the shadow of a man that had once worn that name. He lied face down, shirtless in the cold of the cell, with nothing but scars and wide-open cuts in his back. His face was facing Mycroft, and pain was clearly etched into his features. Unable to see him like that much longer, the Iceman placed a hand on his brother’s back startling him from his restless sleep. Sherlock awoke displeased and with bloodshot eyes. Contrary to what the altruistic Iceman would expect, when Sherlock first locked his tired eyes with his, he was met by the frigid hell of his silver-blue irises. His brother brought the Detective little comfort at first, the cuts on his back stinging and the rest of his skin frozen and almost blue, but as the familiarity of his same blood began to settle, Sherlock became more relaxed. It was hard somehow to eliminate the image of your imminent death from your eyes. Sherlock didn’t know why – he didn’t believe in visions of fortune or destiny – but he had the uneasy feeling that the dream he had had that night, the one that had concluded with Mycroft’s cold eyes transporting him to hell, foretold his long-awaited and much-postponed demise. 

Mycroft Holmes had a plan, one which he had conceived in a flight to Moscow a month ago and had been executing ever since. He wouldn’t admit to being desperate _,_ but the state of mind he was reaching would be perilously close to that in goldfish terms. It had all begun with that Woman, like everything always does. She somehow had a way to do what would annoy Mycroft most, and therefore become as great an inconvenience as humanly possible. In this case, she had gotten sick. The type of sick that made Mycroft call the family doctor in to examine her. The type of sick that made doctors begin their diagnosis with the classic ‘ _I’m sorry to say this, but…’._ The type of sick that forbids the almost three-year-old nephew from seeing his mother without his uncle carrying him in his arms. Yes, Irene Adler had fallen sick from some sort of heart disease that had no apparent cause.  _Oh, but Mycroft knew what it had been._  His brilliant idea of faking Sherlock’s death to get back at Irene had, in truth, been a terrible idea, and now it was mere weeks away from costing him her life. The idea of her death itself didn’t unnerve Mycroft Holmes, it was the child.  _Always becoming an inconvenience,_ the Iceman thought to himself. Nero was still only a toddler and would require a guardian in the event of his mother’s death, and in the absence of his brother the next in the line of guardianship was none other than himself. That was when the idea of ending Sherlock’s exile had first come to Mycroft’s mind. Before Sherlock’s death became a reality, there was the slim chance that Mycroft could either save Irene’s life by righting themisunderstanding, or in the event of her demise, simply deposit Nero in his father’s capable embrace. He had needed to act fast and deposit that Woman in as good a care as England could buy, giving his PA strict instructionsthat should anything happen to her he was to be contacted  _immediately._

As Sherlock and he made their way through the base incognito, Mycroft realized he had begun to worry, not only about his position in the Russian flanks, but also about that Woman. A part of him knew that although Sherlock would deny any sentiment, he would be destroyed by the news of her end. Looking back, the Iceman could make a list in his mind of at least 20 items – varying from intangible things such as inconveniences to tangible like objects – that were clear evidence of the Consulting Detective’s feelings for the ex-Dominatrix. He remained completely abstracted from the outskirts of Moscow as he thought even as the Russians noticed Sherlock’s absence and began their pursuit of the intruders.  _He was getting tired_ , Mycroft acknowledged for the first time since the whole ordeal of that Woman had begun years ago. Perhaps that was exactly how she felt? Maybe the death of the man she loved had taken her will to live. Although it was a difficult subject for Mycroft to ponder, perhaps what had kept his brother going through his times in isolation had been  _her._ Nero was obvious proof that Sherlock felt something for Irene Adler, something intimate and private _,_ deeper than simple reverenceas he had originally dismissed it way back when Karachi still was the resting place of the devil. The Iceman wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The last time Sherlock had loved something and lost it a part of him had died inside. Did something die inside Irene too when he had reported Sherlock’s death to her?  _Perhaps._ Once again Mycroft faced the reality that he had almost killed his brother. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to murder anything that mattered to his brother… and with it a part of Sherlock’s complex personality that died with it never to be developed again.  How would Sherlock feel when he learned the reason for his rescue? The imminent threat of Irene’s death and his clandestine fatherhood? 

When Mycroft returned to his senses all he could see was his brother’s curls shaking around him with his long strides as they ran. He looked completely in his element, that same strange swagger he knew so well coming out as frost caught in his hair. A smirk played in his grey-green irises, awakened at last by a healthy dose of adrenaline.  _Wait. Why were_ _they running again?_ That’s when a bullet passed beside his left eye.  _Oh yeah. The Russians are shooting at us._ Adrenaline began pumping through his veins as the realization hit his bloodstream.  _They had to run._ Of course Sherlock seemed in his element, he realized, he was used to flirting with death. 

_Death._

He took a deep breath and tried to convince himself that everything would continue to go according to plan if he just kept running. After all, if Sherlock continued to come of his own accord without asking any unnecessary questions that would make Mycroft uncomfortable, and they ran to the end of the mile-long strip where a helicopter waited, everything would be going according to plan. Mycroft had requested the ride a whole month in advance when the plan had been originally arranged and Sherlock’s pardon negotiated. Other than the  _minor_ detail of avoiding getting shot, Mycroft believed they could call the mission an unqualified success.  _As long as Sherlock and I_ _co_ _ntinue running at the pace we ho_ _ld,_  the Iceman kept repeating to himself.  _How he despised legwork! As long as Sherlock doesn’t ask any unnecessary questions..._   _If only he could keep that Woman’s name out of his head! Irene, Irene, Irene…_

That’s when Sherlock stopped.

_“Brother mine, why are you stopping? Need I remind you of the Russians?”_

_“Why are you whispering the Woman’s name?”_

_“You’re imagi –“_

_“Don’t insult our intelligence by trying to deceive me, brother dear.”_  Sherlock’s tone was forceful although he was breathless and the endorphins running through his veins made his pulse beat hard enough to be visible from his carotid artery. 

_“If you’ll be so kind as to wait until we’re both safely in the helicopter I went through all the trouble of securing for your rescue – “_ Mycroft pointed at the vehicle waiting at the other side of the fence.  _So close and yet so far…_

_“Exactly, ‘rescue’, why?”_ Sherlock was asking unnecessary questions.

_“Sherlock, this is hardly the time!”_

_“Elementary! Why come and get me NOW, Mycroft? I thought you had said I was supposed to learn my lesson… and in the process die within the next 6 months.”_

_“Well, I changed my mind.”_

_“The only thing that can change your mind is business,”_ Sherlock uttered the words like ice, his stance morphing to a posture that made him appear as emotionally invested as a statue.  _“What sort of offer was made to possibly increase my value to you on business grounds that can overpower the cost I brought by my so-called act of defiance?_ ”

_“I_ _t wasn’t an offer. It’s a matter of life and death… and you’re presence was requested._ _”_

_“By who?”_

_“Haven’t you figured that out already by the name escaping my lips surreptitiously mid-sprint?”_

_“The Woman.”_ Mycroft tried to ignore the way his brother’s eyes lit up at the simple enunciation of her name, at the utter prospect of seeing that devil again. 

_“She’s fallen extremely sick,”_ he made a pause  _“and miraculously happens to still be alive.”_

Of course Sherlock misunderstood the meaning of the sentence.  _“Not so stupid a little brother anymore, right Mycroft? You’d be surprised by the amount of planning that went_ _into Karachi –_ _”_ He uttered confidently and instead of feeling attacked, Mycroft wanted to laugh.  _Definitely not THAT stupid anymore, I’ll give you that_ _, but still blissfully oblivious… of so many things._

_“She’s dying, Sherlock.”_ His light eyes lost color, turning intense and focusing intently on Mycroft's almost as if trying to figure out whether or not he was lying. Sherlock decided he wasn’t.  _“Unless you get on that helicopter we have no chances of saving her.”_

_“Having me around is not going to save her, you know that’s not how science works.”_

_“Perhaps. Still, you must come –“_

Something clicked inside Sherlock's mind then.  _“Wait, why would you want to save her? You don’t care. She has been nothing but an inconvenience to you from the beginning.”_ To Mycroft's dismay, Sherlock continued to ask unnecessary questions that only allowed the Russians to get closer, their shots more precise and the exit further away.  

_“She will only be a greater inconvenience dead, Sherlock!”_ Pressed by another bullet coming dangerously close to his right leg, Mycroft exploded.  _“Even if you can’t save her someone needs to take care of Nero.”_

_“Who’s Nero?”_ The damage was done… and the MI6 agents waiting on the other side of the fence where beginning to get worried.  _Time to make a decision. Tell him now or when we get on the helicopter? Will we even make it to the helicopter?_

_“He’s your son,”_   was Mycroft's simple response. 

_“Mycroft, what?”_ disbelief and confusion flashed on Sherlock's bright eyes. Somehow the Iceman felt his heart break a little at his brother’s face. He wishedthere was something he could doto ease his little brother’s pain, to take back what he’d said. But, there was nothing. He despised that Woman right this second more than ever. _“I don’t have a –“_

He couldn’t hear him say that.  _“Yours and Irene Adler’s. She’s critical Sherlock, and the doctors I’ve had come to examine her say that it is unlikely she will last much longer. If she dies, you are the other immediate legal guardian of the boy.”_

_“I have a son.”_ Sherlock Holmes looked down at the floor, and in that second he looked like the little boy Mycroft recalled from years ago. Somehow his mind always seemed to conjure the idea of a hurt and broken Sherlock that was 10 years old every time the 30-year-old Sherlock looked vulnerable. He looked up at him with those irises that never forgot, broken and confused and… happy. 

Then everything changed.Sherlock’s eyes became grim and cold and… afraid.

_“Mycroft, I can’t –"_

_“He is beautiful, Sherlock,"_  Mycroft found himself saying. He couldn’t hear Sherlock deny and push away his own son and most likely the only other Holmes boy that would ever be. Somehow, Mycroft felt Sherlock needed to hear the conclusion he had come to the moment he met the boy in a hospital while they were both asleep. The feeling he got every time that boy smiled that delicious smile he got from his mother and looked at him with those opalescent eyes he got from his father. The sorrow and guilt that overtook him whenever he had held the boy to his chest so that he could visit his dying mother. He had to confess his sins to someone… who better than him?  _“I never thought I would say so, and much less in front of you, but he is fantastic. He has your cheekbones and your curls. He has Irene’s smile and her nose. And, well, his eyes change color.”_ His brother seemed about to cry. 

_“I can’t Mycroft, you must understand. I… I’m no –“_ he began, for the first time not at all eloquent and seeming to take whatever words entered his mind instead of carefully choosing them. 

_“Irene has loved him so and I’m sure she wished she could have told you herself. Please, Sherlock, when you meet him and you hold him to your chest while he holds your finger in his tiny hand you will instantly find yourself smitten.”_  Mycroft felt he was begging him.

That was the moment Sherlock gave his ultimatum, when Mycroft’s phone rang and his hands betrayed his anxiousness. Irene had died.Both looked from his pocket to the other’s eyes and Sherlock released a tear he had probably held since the name of his son was first mentioned and the significance hit him.  _Montenegro, of course. The city in flames and the boy born of the fire._

_“She’s dead, isn’t she?”_

Unable to hold on anymore, all the MI6 agents had run into the field to win the Holmes boys more time.  _The fence is no longer an_ _obstacle… “Sherlock, let’s get on the helicopter.”_

_“She’s dead.”_  Sherlock’s voice betrayed his sentiment. His tired eyes were red and wide. 

The Iceman reached for his younger brother then and held his arm firmly.  _“Come –“_

_“No,”_ Sherlock had looked into his brother's eyes then with so much left unshared.  _“I am no father, Mycroft. The boy, my… son, will be better off in your care than he could have ever been in The Woman’s or mine. You must care for him now.”_ Mycroft prepared to object when Sherlock took his hand off his arm and moved some steps away in the opposite direction than the helicopter.  _“And, a world without the Woman in it is not one that holds any interest for me.”_

With those words Sherlock ran back into the base, getting shot square in the chest multiple times before the Iceman averted his eyes. He, in turn, ran with unparalleled resolve into the awaiting helicopter, ordering the troops to recover his brother’s corpse and put it in a plane bound for Londonas soon as possible. He refused to admit the tears rolling down his cheeks as the helicopter elevated itself from the ground… or the pain in his chest.Especially the one that accompanied the next text he received from his PA:  _Irene Adler is finally stable. Doctor estimates possible recovery._


	9. Beneath Red Lipstick and a Weak Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against all odds and despite a crippling illness taking over her body, the Woman remains a diamond. Finally, Mycroft sees what his brother always saw.
> 
> The end of the story was finally upon them.  
> Everything had led up to this.

The Iceman returned to England different than when he left it. Funny how one month could be enough time to change everything in existence and everything to exist. Just a moment had been the difference between  _having_  a brother and  _lacking_  one. Mycroft found no words currently existed in his mother-tongue that could express the sentiment clouding his mind. The sentiment that made Sherlock appear behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes making a weak attempt at rest.  _Him,_ with his angular face and his dark curls and his grey-green eyes reamed with red from the one solitary tear at the thought that The Woman had died. His slender yet powerful figure, back bare to the frigid elements surrounding them and covered in irritated scars and cuts, standing before him as bullets went through him one by one. There stood his baby brother for a moment frozen in time like a bird taking flight, arms extended and spine slightly arched, as the sets of metal and powder entered through his front and left through his back.  _Nothing feels quite like it,_ Mycroft decided wiping his swollen eyes once again. That was the only way to describe the sentiment.  _It distinctly feels like nothing. An immediate vacancy deeply within you._

Not only did the Iceman feel empty, but he could also feel himself grow empty _._ It was a sharp, breathless sensation that which lay deep in his chest of feeling his heart being ripped away from its cavity in his diaphragm in a split instant. He swore he could feel his ego and whatever confidence he had developed over the expanse of his forty years of life, his deepest and scarce fears, his highly regarded hopes, his relatively abandoned dreams, and even ancient quarrels all vanish into thin air. He knew with that logical mind that all he had truly lost at this point was his brother – he refusedto say His name– but it felt almost like losing elemental parts of himself in the process. What was the Iceman without his massively over-grown confidence? Empty. Even as those parts of him left, Mycroft could feel them leave that longing. That characteristic sensation of utter loneliness. A lingering state of confusion.

Mycroft Holmes might as well not have said a word at all since the distinct yelling of hisbrother's name on the outskirts of Moscow –  _had he even yelled His name then? He couldn’t remember anymore –_ and he continued on this taciturn manner even as he stood on the airport while another plane delivered the corpse. Arrangements were made to unearth the original body and grave with the black marble stone. Under his very own supervision, the corpse of his brother was prepared for his ultimate resting place. The Iceman retrieved one of  _His_ shirts from Baker Street, the purple one that everyone seemed to like to be precise –  _he refused to believe he had done so because the purple gave the illusion of color to His dead cheeks –_ and a set of black trousers and suit jacket. His tangled mass of curls had to be washed and arranged into the look he preferred, a set almost covering his right eye –  _still grey-green though vacant as he insisted that they closed them for good after looking at the pasture of his childhood one last time_ _–_ and leaving his left uncovered. Hewas placed on a coffin made from the same wood as the backyard tree he liked to rest against as a boy, and his head placed on a pillow the shade of blood. Another funeral had to be arranged and  _His_ scarce friends had to be called. Lestrade and Scotland Yard were there. John Watson, Mary and their daughter too. Molly Hooper and Janine as well. Of course the good Doctor wrote a eulogy and dressed himself, his wife, and baby girl in black. Theirparents cried. 

He lingered after the sepulcher was placed 6 feet underground to gaze at the grave, and found the whole affair absolutely illogical. Feelings, sentiment itself,were by definition,illogical to his cold and calculating mind. He found that they served no useful purpose to the organism other than to interfere with pure and sound reasoning. That which  _He_ had always valued above all things. Having taken analysis as a manner to cope with his grief, Mycroft realized that his previous notion that his heart was being ripped from his ribcage was not only impossible but implausible. That those deep and scarce fears, highly regarded hopes, relatively abandoned dreams, and such didn’t dissolve, disappear, or disintegrate. They had just escaped to a momentary vacation into his subconscious. _My mind is just busy,_ he came to realize staring blankly and with an unfocused gaze at  _His_ name carved in stone,  _busy accepting. Struggling to reconcile itself with the surroundings. Adapting to the unexpected and everlasting change._ _Busy w_ _ith…loss. How abstract the concepts,_ Mycroft thought in a moment of sincerity and rather uncharacteristic innocence,  _to own and then to not own. To know and then to forget._ His talented, gifted mind tried to assimilate them. To assimilate everything without getting involved on an emotional level. For the first time in a very long time, the Iceman found himself facing his two great enemies of old: failure and sentiment. As he stared into the letters of Sherlock’s name, Mycroft found the knowledge – knowing that from now on he’d be completely and absolutely alone _–_ too much for him to bear. It became an absolute impossibility to look into the stone – that marble that reflected his own broken self back at him _–_ without fully fathoming, fully understanding,the agonyof it all. Just like that, Mycroft Holmes cried.       

As he made his way back home in a sinister and half-sentient way, he realized that the hardest part of the affair had not yet been completed. The Womanwas yet to be informed. Mycroft busied his tangled mind for a moment with thinking of the many other scenarios in which he could have had to tell  _Her_ of such an event. Yet… as he began to turn the idea in his head he came to realize that thissituation, the one which he had molded with his meddling in Sherlock’s affairs, was the only way that made him feel this weirdpouncing, telling, guilt.He could always speculate that if Karachi had been accomplished as the grim situation had promised he would not have had to tell  _Her_ at all. Or, that if Sherlock had not gone to the middle of nowhere to rescue  _Her_  and – another first when it came to admitting for Mycroft _–_ made loveto  _Her_ , Nero would not exist. If Nero didn’t exist  _She_  would not have become such a target and he would not have bothered with capturing  _Her_  and interrogating  _H_ _er_  to end up giving  _Her_  a flat in London to keep an eye on  _Her_. Also, he would not have ended up allowing himself to be manipulated by that Woman to the point of getting tired of  _H_ _er_  mockery and telling  _H_ _er_  the once powerful lie that Sherlock was dead. And _…_  if he hadn’t told that lie  _S_ _he_  would not have gotten sick, forcing him to go and terminate Sherlock’s exile early. By that point, the speculation would return to the beginning. The reason Sherlock had killed himself in the outskirts of Moscow had been because he had gone to the middle of nowhere to rescue  _Her_ , made love to  _Her_ , created Nero with  _Her_ , got so entangled in  _H_ _er_  claws that the thought of  _H_ _er_  death made him lose interest in this world. 

Somehow, it was impossible for the Iceman – he who had valued pure and sound reasoning above all since he was but a boy – to accept that, had he not meddled in his brother’s affairs at all, technicality suggested, he would still be alive. The major disturbance on the timeline was not only his darling nephew but himself as well. Nevertheless, Mycroft Holmes was too selfish or too selfless to accept his sentiment. To take that weirdpouncing, telling, guilt he inexplicably felt at the thought of the situation he found himself in and acknowledge it like a man. He was too afraid, or perhaps too astute, to accept that in his hands now lay a much-complicated matter. But, be he as he may, Mycroft Holmes was a meticulous and honorable man. He was not too grand and not too aloof to accept facts. Sherlock, he realized now much too late and after collecting massive amounts of evidence and thoughts, had lovedIrene Adler. Dubbing _Her_ “ _The Woman_ _”_ had been his way of setting her apart from the rest of her kind as the unusual element that she was. His nickname for her had been his compartmentalization of her into his rational and logical brain, giving her a place in the winding halls of his Mind Palace. For as much of a bother as Mycroft had found Irene to be, she had been to _His Woman._ She had once represented his brother’s opposite and complement; the one and only woman he ever cared to know and think of in the way that a woman should be regarded in. He considered her to be the most splendid member of her sex, and he had loved her for that. The Iceman now realized that Sherlock had found solace in  _H_ _er_ ;  _H_ _er_  mind,  _H_ _er_  body,  _H_ _er_  spirit. Both had found the peace and understanding they had never had in the other. The only place where Sherlock’s ever-awake brain rested and Irene’s turbulent past unchained its bonds probably was whenever they lied tangled in each other’s embrace.  _She deserves to know the truth,_ Mycroft thought to himself,  _even if it’s uncomfortable for the both of us. Even if neither of us is ready and able to accept that it truly is the end._

It was after midday and nearing the evening calm when Mycroft entered Irene and Nero’s apartment. Restless, he had made his way upstairs, ignoring the absolute almost tomb-like quality of the rooms. Once facing the master bedroom door, the Iceman had knocked and found himself met by that Woman clad in a dressing gown sitting by the window upon her desk. A fountain pen on her left hand, a stack of paper beside her, and an envelope. She appeared to be writing dutifully. Turning towards the bed, he found his nephew asleep with his back to him while holding tightly onto a pillow. Mycroft tried to deny the tears that came to his eyes the moment the little three year old turned and allowed him view of his delicate yet familiar features. He would bet right now that as Nero grew older more and more of his brother would present itself in his features. Slowly, he felt the knot return to the back of his constricted throat. The Woman remained unfazed and relaxed, writing away on the pages by her side for a couple more minutes. Mycroft gave her time and space to finish the work he had interrupted by coming in uninvited. Although the slight doubt remained on his mind about whether or not she had heard him come in, his mind was set to rest as she turned around and acknowledged his presence. Neither said a word as she stood from the desk, her pride keeping her from remaining seated before the Iceman. With his observant gaze, he noticed the weakness in her joints from a long time off her limbs, also her new extreme thinness. Being noticeably careful with her every move though she remained in balance and swift, Irene came to stand before her rival and lover’s brother. Beneath the red lipstick and the weak smile, lied steel. 

_“Good Afternoon, Ms. Adler.”_

_“Afternoon, Mr. Holmes.”_

_“I can barely contain my excitement at seeing you once again on your feet and on your way to recovery.”_

Irene found herself bestowing a sarcastic smirk on the Iceman. Her eyes were tired and lines marked the contours of every feature on her face.  _“Cut the formalities, Iceman. We both know that whether or not I die matters little to you.”_

As often occurs with misconceptions in such occasions, The Woman had little idea just how much her life mattered to the Iceman in this current moment in time. Her ignorance of it though, as very rarely happens, was inconsequential to the following sequence of events. The only way in which such trivial and sentimental thoughts featured anymore were as motivation for Mycroft Holmes. Consumed by his grief and new-found realization that his brother had managed to love a woman before his death, he felt a duty to let that woman know of her importance. Hadn’t she always reveled in information? Well, now the British Government would tell her everything she should have always craved to know.

_“I have a confession to make to you, Irene.”_

It took the Woman by surprise to have the Iceman call her by name. For all intended purposes and all that mattered now and had mattered then, Irene wanted to believe that was the first time he had addressed her like that. It certainly felt like the first time. He continued. 

_“I lied to you regarding Sherlock’s death in December. That had been a machination of mine to try to even out our board when it came to manipulation.”_ Mycroft found himself making a slight pause as he heard her take in a shuddering breath, swallowing loudly.  _“In fact, the reason I left was indeed to make a visit to our parent’s home for Christmas. Everything had been fine then, but I was not aware of Sherlock’s plan to take down a major businessman, Mr. Charles Augustus Magnussen. I could not have predicted that the outcome of their clandestine meeting would be Sherlock’s murder of the man.”_  At the mention of Magnussen’s name a chill ran down Irene’s spine. Of course she too knew who he had been. Another fellow blackmailer and information storehouse. Knowing Sherlock had risked himself to kill the man made a dose of pride hit her bloodstream. Sherlock had most likely been disgusted by Magnussen and his manipulative ways to keep people submissive. She could see his reasons for destroying such a horrible man. But Mycroft was not done…

_“As an alternative to incarcerating Sherlock for his new status of ‘murderer’, it was decided by me that Sherlock would be sent to Eastern Europe for another assignment. Everything had been fine until you fell sick, Irene. Knowing your condition was delicate it occurred to me that the way to restore it would be correcting my lie. I went to the outskirts of Russia and extracted Sherlock from the terrorist cell that held him, of course… as we ran, he began to ask_ _questions.”_ Once again the Iceman faltered. Nothing was quite as hard as confessing your sins to the person you have most wronged. Still, he felt he owed it to Sherlock. What’s more, he was standing right there, between them standing by the bed. He stood there in his purple shirt and his cleaned and tangled curls, looking down at his son for the very first time. His eyes were wide with disbelief as he stared at the child he had half the credit for engineering.  _Most likely greater even than the sum of his already magnificent parts,_ Mycroft Holmes was more than convinced. His musician's fingers reached for his son’s dark mass of hair and a fond smile graced his lips. The Consulting Detective said nothing as he traced his index finger down his son’s chubby, rosy cheeks. When his grey-green eyes lifted to Mycroft, the knot that had been clinging to his throat like a chocker tightened again.  _Tell The Woman what I did, Mycroft._ They commanded.  _She must know my last words._

His attention returned to the impossibly blue eyes of Irene Adler. The Iceman attempted to memorize the anticipating look in her eyes right before she went faint and lost all color. Hope, he had learned, returned color to this genius’ pale cheeks, but death would irreparably take it away.  _“I was forced to tell him about your state, and one thing led to another until I told Sherlock about Nero.”_ Color flooded Irene’s face as red began rimming her eyes. A tear escaped through her left.  _“The idea of the boy thrilled him and I told him about his son, but then… well, the alert I had placed regarding any news from you sounded and…”_ The Woman didn’t need to be told to conclude that Sherlock had deciphered the meaning of the alarm and with his prior knowledge decided that it must declare her death. Tears were fully streaming through her pained face now. Unable to look The Woman in the eye any longer, Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock. Noticing his Woman’s distress, he had moved away from the sleeping boy and towards her. Carefully, he held her face with his right hand looking into her irises, almost as if he could read the unspoken thoughts within them. Without lifting his gaze from The Woman’s, Sherlock reached behind him for Mycroft hand and slowly placed it on Irene’s forearm. When he turned to look his older brother in the eye again, Sherlock looked resolute.  _Show her compassion. She needs to know that you care and that you understand the pain that she feels. Hold her arm firmly, brother mine._ Her face was that of astonishment as the Iceman’s hand firmly held onto her arm. Mycroft’s attention from this point on until the end of his confession though remained on his brother’s silver and green irises. They encouraged him to tell her, they pressedhim. More than anything, they implored him. She needed to hear it. 

_“After that Sherlock lost himself in confusion and grief. He turned to look at me and asked me to take car_ _e of your son before he ran back into the compound getting hit multiple times in the chest.”_  That was when Irene openly crashed. The effect he expected his words would have hit her, and as it did, she became weak and soft. As her legs gave in beneath her in grief, Irene allowed herself to fall into Mycroft’s arms. He, in turn, allowed himself to hold her. His arms moved to her back, pressing her skeletal body to his. His original observation of her extreme thinness became much more real than before as he realized that she was light enough to be lifted off the ground with relative ease. This proved useful information as her body strength left her almost limp in his arms. Still, there was one last thing to say.  _“Before he left me,”_ Mycroft whispered softly to the sobbing Woman his brother had loved,  _“he proclaimed that a world without you in it was not one that held any interest for him.”_ Behind Irene Adler’s pained chuckle stood Sherlock with a soft smile on his face. 

With the woman who was once The Woman carried in his arms, Mycroft moved back towards the bed and laid her down. Color, as predicted, had vanished from her features. Irene looked faint and pale and defeated.  _“I forgive you, Mycroft,”_ She whispered in her broken voice that somehow still managed to be sweet and pure.  _“Sherlock forgives you too.”_

Still holding her arm, the Iceman struggled not to show how much the words she had uttered so confidently, to him, sounded like a lie. If Sherlock was anything like him, he would never forgive.  _“I’ll take you to say goodbye right now if you like.”_ He made a pause as he traced his free hand through Nero’s curls. How was it that the boy always chose the right moments to be asleep?  _“The funeral was today, so the coffin is underground, but I can still take you to the grave.”_ For the first time since they met, Mycroft could see what Sherlock had seen in the Woman. Even with her heart shattered in two, she still projected the illusion of strength. At least she did when she wasn’t coughing blood into a handkerchief with her initials carefully embroiled on it. 

After a couple of minutes, Mother, Uncle, and nephew found themselves in front of Sherlock Holmes’ grave. Irene Adler had been able to moderately compose herself. She had changed to a black dress, placing her long hair in an up-do with a lace veil covering her face. Red lipstick was the sharpest feature of her façade of tranquility, that title originally belonging to the fantastic depth of her sapphire-like eyes. Because Irene had suddenly begun coughing violently again, Mycroft had to bundle up Nero and she had been forced to put on a coat. The boy, in fact, had been carefully dressed in black with his unruly curls combed back. The only change noticeable in the Iceman had been his decision to bring along his umbrella. In his experience it always rained when visiting graveyards, and with the dark, looming clouds above them he felt he might just be right. The end of the story was finally upon them. Everything had led up to this.

As Irene locked her soul-less gaze with the letters of his name, she began to cry. A sob of the quality that has never been known to man before. Just as her past mourning of him had been quiet and passive, this time she was loud and aggressive. Her weakened limbs dropped and abandoned her on the fresh and muddy dirt upon which Sherlock lay. Dirt which she pounded against with her fists and kicked with her feet. Such was the desperation within her that she began scratching her nails against the black marble of the stone before her, firmly smashing her head against it. Once her actions began to lose control, Mycroft attempted to intervene, but The Woman wouldn’t let him. She swore she could see  _Him._ According to Irene, Sherlock was kneeling before her then, caressing her face and begging her to keep her wits about her. He kindly reminded her she needed to finish what she had started. Once again Mycroft attempted to intervene, but, he recognized, Irene Adler was afraid. Afraid that Sherlock would leave her again. 

_“Mycroft, I want you to make me a_ _vow and…_ _a_ _promise,_ _”_ She said as a particular streak of blood coming all the way from her forehead caught his attention as it coursed through the veil, from the top of her head to her neck. Mycroft kneeled then and held her; her bloodied self on one side, his pristine, sleepy nephew on the other. He nodded and stared at her intently, just as Sherlock had done before.  _“_ _Swear to me that you will care for Nero as if he were your own son. He is precious and intelligent, and I’m sure that, under your guidance, he will be just as magnificent as any Holmes boy I ever met.”_

No need to think the answer through. No need to think about the fact that he had never made a vow in his life… or that Sherlock’s one and only vow had led him to his death.  _“I swear I will.”_

_“Remember that you are all he has now,”_ Irene managed to rasp out before succumbing to a body-shaking cough. In an instant, the blood dripped on her lips and the inside of her elbow, giving the illusion that the lipstick  _was_ blood to her mouth. Her hands, he noticed, were bloody too. _“Take this,”_ she added handing the Iceman a closed envelope. _So that’s what she had been writing then._ _“It’s for Nero. Give it to him when he is old enough to understand, or when you find there are too many questions left to answer him.”_        

A half-hearted chuckle rose from both as Irene took off her ring. The ring from the city burning in flames and the scarlet violin.With shaking hands, The Woman placed the ring upon her infant son’s hand before passing her index finger down his cheek. A ruffle of his curls and a kiss upon his forehead. Mycroft attempted to ignore the stains bestowed upon the boy’s skin of his own mother’s blood as he placed the sealed envelope on his coat pocket promising not to think too much about it just yet. 

_“Now, promise me, Iceman, that, when the last breath leaves my body you will bury me with him,”_ Irene's request is unexpected. 

_“I’ll make arrangements to place your grave beside his…”_

_“No! WITH HIM, Mycroft Holmes. I want you to promise me that you will open that grave when I die and that you will lay me down beside him on his coffin. That you will let me place my head to rest upon his heart as he holds my waist and that we will lay like that forever.”_ Irene all but yelled with her broken, blood-stained voice. The Iceman found himself speechless and nodded. 

_“I promise you, Irene.”_ With that The Woman was dead. 

As he held the corpse of The Woman who would never become Irene Holmes but should have always been in his arms, Mycroft felt the first drops of the tempest he had foretold. In this moment of uncharacteristic sincerity and clarity, a realization hit him. Irene Adler had loved Sherlock Holmes. Not only had Sherlock been capable of taking his life at the thought of not seeing her again, but she had been capable of reciprocating the feeling at a glance. They had been what were commonly known as  _star-crossed lovers_ , apparently. He purposely dismissed the thought that Anthea had mentioned the idea to him dealing with an old Shakespearean play some time before… those he had dismissed as implausible fantasies once as a young man in college _._ The boy stirred in his arms, and Mycroft allowed himself to grow used to the fact that that would be their life – his and the boy’s– from now on and until further notice. Nero Hamish Adler Holmes was his to cherish and hold and protect until death took him from him… well, that or rebelliousness.  

The very next day everything was set into motion. Irene’s flat was dismantled and anything remotely important or belonging directly to her was kept and moved into a box that was now in his attic. Nero and all his things were moved immediately to his house, and Mycroft found that even having his own room, the boy preferred spending time in the master bedroom with him as he worked and he slept. It became rather surreal for him that in the expanse of 24 hours he had arranged a funeral for and buried Sherlock, killed Irene Adler, taken full custody of his nephew, opened the tomb again, and now was burying Adler in it. While Nero had stayed at home with Anthea, Mycroft had returned to the graveyard to fulfill Irene’s last request and his only promise. At least the only promise he would ever get the chance to fulfill. Mist rather than raindrops fell about him, likely a result from the tree beside the grave, as The Woman’s body was arranged, curved into Sherlock’s per her request. After being cleaned and dressed in a long dark purple dress, Irene rested against her lover – Mycroft hated that he had noticed this to be the first time in two years that their skins touched since the hospital when Sherlock had gotten shot _–_ her long, ebony hair covering his chest. The purple of their clothes gleamed color to their pale high-cheekbones, giving them the illusion of having fallen blissfully and deeply asleep. Once everything had been arranged and final goodbyes had been given, the coffin was returned underground and buried beneath the muddy earth. As he turned his back to the grave and the morose skies above, thunder and lightning beginning to crack and soft mist creasing to a more steady rain, Mycroft opened his umbrella.

Nobody would ever know the secret Sherlock took with him to his grave. His promise to the Devil with a crimson smile, sapphires for eyes, and his younger brother’s heart was complete. 

Umbrella in hand, the Iceman returned home.


	10. His Vow, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Irene's letter to Nero.

_My illness has weakened me greatly, my darling son._ _I have recovered slightly from the beginning when I held no energy at all to even keep my e_ _yes open_ _, yet my health is still hanging upon a thin thread._ _As it turns out, not only my immune system is almost irreparably compromised, but my epidermis is inconceivably fragile._ _Nowadays_ _I have to be careful not to cu_ _t myself, for if I did, no matter how small the wound,_ _an uncontrollable hemorrhage would follow_ _._ _You can’t imagine the torture it is to be constantly mindful of not doing yourself any harm._ _At least not any more harm than your body is already doing to itself._ _In my previous life, back when the world made sense, blood brought me satisfaction, not fear._ _When I worked as a dominatrix and s_ _adomasochism or BDSM_ _was my way of life,_ _my existence consisted of_ _and reveled_ _in causing_ _people_ _pain in order to bring upon_ _them_ _pleasure. To be honest, darling, I no longer see the appeal. Speaking as someone who lives each day in constant pain, someone who feels empty and broken and hollow inside, someone who coughs blood upon a handkerchief more tim_ _es a day than she sees her son, I simply cannot understand how this unpleasant limbo in-and-out of consciousness with a side order of throbbing, coughing, and crying can bring anyone pleasure._

_It’s ironic, Nero, what karma can do to you once it gets tired of waiting for you to repent for your so-called sins. Neither your father nor I believed in a higher power other than ourselves, so I’m not quite sure how to define the sins that the universe is probably trying to make me repent. I have an idea of course – I happen to have a lot of free-time lately – but, I still find the punishment cruel. For being a dominatrix wi_ _th a penchant of_ _bringing countries and their representatives to their knees to beg for my mercy, now karma has left me on my knees depending completely from the British Government and its stone-hearted representative, begging him to take my son into his arms_ _so_ _I can_ _see him. For enjoying the sensation of pleasure_ _brought by pain_ _laying limp on a be_ _d, karma has left me coughing scarlet droplets into_ _the_ _white fabric_ _of a handkerchief and my silk sheets_ _, immobile and weakened. Yet the punishment most painful of all is that which comes from having allowed my walls to come down against my better judgment_ _and loving_ _your father._

_You know, darling, if I believed in regrets and found_ _it within me to seek forgiveness, the_ _most secret one of them all_ _would be the fact that I_ _never did t_ _ell your father to his face explicitly to what extent he held my heart. Out of all the things we did say, the three most important words ever engineered to express sentiment between two people were not one of them._ _Maybe that_ _’s_ _why he_ _was taken from me so ruthlessly._ _Because I was always_ _the epitome of sin to his soul. Too_ _unwo_ _rthy, sordid, corrupted, and devilish_ _for the universe to accept that I coul_ _d be the missing piece of such a_ _charismatic, magnetic, electric, magnificent man._ _The universe tried everything in its power, darling, to keep your father and me apart, to coax him to abandon his addiction to me.  Nevertheless, I s_ _wear son_ _that what we had was_ _meant to be. I could have remained unattached to a man so strange_ _,_ _considering the fact that I was attracted to women, fulfilled my plan, and rob_ _bed_ _the UK of a large sum of money. He could have treated me with the same calculative dismissal he showcased with any other client, focus_ _ed_ _his attention on me with the same perspective of_ _nothing more than a cipher_ _in his equation_ _, taken my camera-phone from the first encounter, and solved the case. The feature of inter_ _est here being_ _the fact that_ _we didn’t_ _, that neither of us acted as we should_ _._

_Physical attraction existed from the very beginning. From the moment when I swayed into the room naked and_ _his opalescent eyes_ _filled with surprise_ _locked with mine_ _,_ _it became clear that he was the only one for me._ _I found I couldn’t stop myself from remarking about his sharp cheekbones (mostly because I could barely keep myself from slapping them), and that he couldn’t help staring at every curve of my body with such intensity I imagined he was trying to memorize me. As we grew to know each other, intellectual attraction emerged. I demonstrated to this misogynous, arrogant, pompous man that a woman was capable of as much deduction and observation as him by solving his previous case. He demonstrated just how brilliant he was too, but most importantly that he could be mischievous and resourceful to try and get me to give him the_ _password to my_ _camera-phone in inventive ways. Then came sentiment, and that was what truly tangled us together._ _As I changed my password to be a pun of his name and he changed his perspective to realize that he was my enervation._ _As he saved my life in Karachi out of guilt after destroying my plans before the Iceman. As he requested and I offer my assistance in his quest to end Moriarty’s web during the Great Hiatus. As we waltzed throughout Eastern Europe and parts of the Americas, misbehaving and plucking the infamous strings of the largest criminal network in the world._ _As he gifted me with Moriarty’s web, installing me as its undisputed new queen._ _As we’d surrender to tender, passionate moments and_ _your father would_ _touch me, be it a simple taking_ _of my wrist to measure my pulse or an iron grip to hold my h_ _ands above my head,_ _with such care_ _and intent_ _._ _When h_ _e’_ _d hold me firmly yet delicately, giving me the impression that he believed me to be made out of the finest china and_ _was afraid_ _I’d slip through his fingers if he didn’_ _t hold on hard enough to shatter on the floor._

_I loved your Father so, my dearest one, and it kills me to know you’ll never know such a man. If you grow up to be even a tenth of what he was you’ll be a better man than the bulk of those I’ve met in my lifetime. You’ve heard me complain_ _about my life and the way that it went, but it wasn’t_ _so bad in reality._ _I always had a purpose and the courage to carry it through. I fell in love with a man as damaged, delusional, and extraordinary as I. One who learned what I liked, memorized me, and tended to me like no one can claim to have ever done. I had a son and felt a connection to what I think could be God that I could have never experienced otherwise. And,_ _I can truthfully say that I managed to find the solution to life’s four great conundrums and that’s more than most_ _can say they accomplished in theirs. The day you face them I hope you do so with a cold, calculating, intelligent head because if you don’t_ _,_ _believe when I say they have the power to destroy you.  One day you’ll face Love and you will adore and lust over and desire someone until you find you cannot breathe… that you cannot think of living in_ _this world if they’re not there, but I hope you remember to beware sentiment’s iron-grip to stay._ _One day you’ll face Hate_ _and you will feel a consuming need to eliminate and eradicate and terminate all those which you feel aversion to, but I hope you remember through the haze of derision that in the end the hurt you cause cannot be undone. One day you will face Comfort and you will feel like all your problems are over and as if you could finally settle down upon your bed to rest without worrying about tomorrow, but I hope you remember that commodity has its price and tends to last an ephemeral amount of time not to mention bore the most intrepid. Finally, one day you’ll face the Unknown and you will answer to its siren-call ready to do anything to keep the thrill and the adventure and the mystery about you because it is intoxicating, but I hope you remember that curiosity is as big a flaw as it is a virtue._

_With the Iceman’s visit, today comes new information_ _that_ _I can’t deny being pained to hear. The knowledge that y_ _our father is_ _gone, my darling son, makes_ _the weight of his loss_ _return_ _within my heart like a dead weight that is slowly crushi_ _ng me. I am certain that now_ _he’ll claim my life as his and kill me with desire. That intense passion that characterized our minds, and fueled the bl_ _ood in our veins will bring about_ _my end. My sentiment for him, I guess, was always my greatest weakness._ _You uncle adds his confession of having fooled me and unintentionally bringing me to my current state of scarce health. I’m positive he realizes I’m almost a walking corpse, thin and defeated and small._ _He retells the story as my mascara runs, and then he tells me that your father died knowing you existed and believing me dead. That what drove him to commit suicide was the fact that he couldn’t imagine living life without me in this world._

_I should feel Hate for your father’s murderer, but I can’t bring myself to do so baby boy. W_ _hen I gaze at him,_ _at the only other human being that I can concede loved your father, I don’t feel an ounce of Ice._ _Nero, I don’t h_ _ate_ _your uncle_ _, and if he resorts to self-pity and claims that I did, stop him and inform him it isn’t true._ _Although I realize he is the mastermind behind all my suffering, and both the killer of my lover and me, I don’t feel derision towards him. I feel empathy for I understand the fact that he couldn’t believe – just like the universe apparently – that a woman as damaged as me would be the perfect pair to a man as delusional as his brother._ _I feel pity and sadness and grief for my own demise._ _My heart aches at the thought of you being left alone,_ _darling,_ _and I cry knowing that all the family you will have will be none other than the Iceman, but I know he will take care of you._ _I know so because he is for the first time taking control over the Ice in his heart. Minutes ago he not only held me as I wept on his shoulder but has offered to take us to your father’s grave._ _I fear for myself when I see the tombstone. I’m almost certain I’ll lose control the moment the reality of my loneliness finally hits me as real. Multiple times I had fantasized over hitting my head against the walls of the room and cutting my veins to finalize my suffering… perhaps before him, I’ll have the strength needed to end what’s left of my miserable bed-ridden life._

_Reaching the end of my letter, darling Nero, I have my final remarks. Please k_ _now that it wasn’t my choice to be_ _bound to your Father this way,_ _but_ _that_ _there is nothing I can do. Not having him around me is killing me, and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to last._ _Please know that I loved two men in my life and that you are the only one of them that is not currently dead. I have two_ _hopes for you, darling_ _. One is for you to learn from all the mistakes I, Sherlock, and the Iceman_ _have_ _made so you never repeat them but still get the invaluable knowledge. Remember to be cautious of Fire and Ice. The other is for you to find a way to forgive us for not being there for you in your moments of joy and need._ _Know that the mere knowledge that I was your mother at least for a little while has redeemed me for all my sins in my eyes._ _Every person whose life you’ve touched has been made better just by your acquaintance. Th_ _ere_ _fore, there_ _isn’t a doubt in my mind that you are one brilliant, genius, delusional boy and I love you bey_ _ond reason for that my_ _darling_ _._

_Never forget just how extraordinary you are and just what a present that is._

 

_With immeasurable Sentiment, I remain now and forevermore,_

_Sincerely and Very Truly Yours, my Darling and Only Son,_

 

_Your Mother,_

_I_ _rene Adler._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so concludes the Conundrum between Fire and Ice. 
> 
> Hope you all liked it... and those who stuck by and waited for the story through the years, well, a very special thank you to you. The subscribers, the bookmarks, etc. Love you all. Thank you for letting me share my story with you. 
> 
> \- Red :)


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